


Wordless

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Emotionally Constipated Mycroft, Gentle Sex, Greg knows his Mycroft well, M/M, Oral Sex, Soft Smut Sunday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: He doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs in these moments. Not directly.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 19
Kudos: 147
Collections: Soft Smut Sunday





	Wordless

**Author's Note:**

> A little ficcy that didn't fight me too much.

He doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs in these moments. Not directly. If he knew how, he would. There’s a look that flashes over his face, defensive and tense. Like this sort of thing should be easy, and the fact he can’t is laughable. The frustration of it draws his brows together, tightens the line of his mouth into a grimace.

That Greg gets to see him go through it is proof of how far they’ve come.

He has to have Greg close when it’s like this, closer than ivy to bricks. He wants the weight of Greg’s body, their skin bare and in constant contact, the protective shell of tangled sheets and darkness. His touch travels everywhere, nervous, never in one place very long. Every so often, Greg will catch his hand, guide it here, press it there, and it’s hard to tell if he’s embarrassed or grateful to be directed.

 _Please_ , his gaze begs. _Please, I want – I can’t_ \- Even that much honesty is too much, too overwhelming. He screws his eyes shut, turns his face away, trying to hide. Greg knows to wait; his palms framing that clenched jaw, softness murmured as their foreheads rest together. He works things out using gentle, questioning touches and whispers of “There? More?”. Mouth, he finds; tongue and three fingers, slow and deep, his hair gripped by restless hands, the breathing above his head fragile and fractured. 

Even as Greg feels him come – clenching over and over, his back arching, thighs trembling – he barely gets a word out. Just soft, gasping cries; relief so desperate he can’t express it in any way that’s coherent. He won’t settle after, won’t rest. He wants Greg on his back, his lips wrapped around Greg’s cock, moaning and wrung out as he urges Greg to chase what he needs. They’re both shaking when Greg finally comes apart down his throat.

The calm that follows is perfect. They lay curled around each other, kissing quietly. Greg passes the minutes gazing into his eyes, combing careful fingers through the disarray of his hair. He smooths a thumb over his lips, weak against the hazy smile that forms in response.

“Good, Myc?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nods. “Yes, it was-” He breathes in, seeming to consider Greg’s face for the length of a thought.

He nestles closer.

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been the hardest month for me this year, but it feels good to be posting again. Thank you all for reading. :)


End file.
